For My Sweet
by Chro Mephisto
Summary: Neku was too attached, the Composer was too careless, and the Angels won the game.  And then the Composer fired the bullet.  One hit.  One shot.  One bullet.  Bang. Bang.


**Title—**For My Sweet

**Author—**Chronos Mephistopheles

**Fandom—**The World Ends With You

**Challenge—**"One Bullet" by The Murder of My Sweet was suggested by my wifey as a Joshua/Neku song, and this is what came out of my writing a fic in about…30 minutes.

**Couplings/Characters—**Yoshiya "Joshua" Kiryu, with mentionings of Megumi Kitaniji and Neku Sakuraba

**Warnings/Rating—**Teen, for hints of violence, suicide

**Summary—** Neku was too attached, the Composer was too careless, and the Angels won the game. And then the Composer fired the bullet. One hit. One shot. One bullet. Bang. Bang.

**For My Sweet**

He stared at the gun in hand, the metal shape glinting in the slight light of the Dead God's Pad. The item he used to shoot Neku twice seemed to stare at him accusingly. The Composer wasn't sure how an inanimate object could maintain feelings and accuse him of anything, but that feeling was still there. Cursing, the inhuman form dropped it to the ground, the gun misfiring and sending the overwhelming noise of a gunshot echoing in the room. His eyes followed the path, spotting the hole in the wall that would be healed and patched up with no issues in only a few moments.

He watched it, his gaze eventually lowering back down to the gun, the barrel pointing away from him and at the entrance. It was the gun given to him by the Higher Ups, the gun used to enact any form of justice or punishment on the one fired upon. Instead the only two bullets he used were to shoot his Proxy. The Composer couldn't figure out how he felt about that. This item, meant to enact overwhelming heavenly punishing justice, was used to kill a boy, and then return that boy to life.

All with the pull of a trigger.

Bang. Bang.

Lavender eyes narrowed in contempt, and to push the firearm farther away, he kicked it and sent it clattering across the concrete floor. It clicked loudly, a noise that had the Composer on edge, wondering if it would misfire yet again. The gun was so touchy, barely a touch and it would fire. With a thought of the owner, it would fire. However, that was the beauty of it.

The Composer mused over the thought of that particular aspect. If Neku truly wanted to shoot him, if the proxy had even the honest thought behind shooting and killing Joshua, the gun would have obeyed. It was in its makeup. The fact Neku couldn't bring himself to even contemplate killing Joshua was the most thought inducing moment of the Composer's nonlife.

Of all the people who truly deserved it, the Composer was sure it would be himself. Of all the things and harm he'd inflicted upon the people of his territory, of his ward, surely it would have been reason enough to receive punishment. And he was dead set it would have been Neku, that Neku would have been the dealer of that punishment. He'd lost track of how many years his whims had Shibuya suffering or flourishing, of how many times he would be petty and ruin the day of people who deserved happiness. And he was sure Neku was aware of it.

Neku had to be aware of it, the boy was much too intelligent, he would have realized it during that conversation. All of Neku's problems, all of Neku's emotional setbacks, his horrible memories, the reasons for his angst, were all caused by the Composer of Shibuya. Without fail, the Composer would make Neku's days miserable.

Why? They say misery loves company. The Composer liked to think he was just a sadistic bastard with too much time on his hands.

And then the Composer fired that bullet. One hit. One shot. One bullet.

He couldn't let Neku remember his death, so memories were extracted. And when Kitaniji removed even more for that first week, the Composer figured it couldn't do any harm to his plans. Instead it set back all of his plans, but the Composer couldn't pause the Game and reset it. There was no redo option this time. Not with the angels watching.

So when Week Two rolled around, and the Composer interacted directly with the Proxy, with the boy meant to deal the judgment the Composer self-imposed, it was much more difficult to manipulate and change Neku's thoughts. Neku had to survive. Neku had to make it to the Dead God's Pad. So it was without question that the Composer throw Neku out of the way, that he keep the Proxy safe until the following week.

Undoubtedly the guilt Neku felt afterwards was unnecessary, as no harm came to the Composer, but the devil found himself touched. He supposed after spending a week with someone in life or death situations would cause a fondness on Neku's side, but there was nothing he could do about it in his being dead. And then there were the angels, still watching, still observing it all with a cold gaze. They knew his plan, they knew his goal, and yet they watched without any major interference.

The Composer shifted on his throne, eyes closing as he recalled that final confrontation. It was too late, too wrong, too perfect. Neku was too attached, the Composer was too careless, and the Angels won the game.

And then the Composer fired the bullet. One hit. One shot. One bullet.

Bang. Bang.

The Composer retrieved the gun and turned it over in his hands. That accusing stare remained, and he felt that clenching emotion in his chest. Was it guilt? Was it fear? All it took was one bullet to change the Game, to change everything the Composer knew. Standing in the abyss, he checked the clip, made sure the safety was off, and raised it to his temple. All it would take would be one thought, one urge, and the Composer would be dead.

The way he originally should have done it, no others involved. He closed his eyes, took an unneeded breath, and wished for it. He could imagine the way the bullet would break through the skin, crack the bone, split sinews and marrow and the way the blood would splatter through the room and across the wall if angled correctly. His hand was steady.

He stood there for minutes, hours, days, years. And the gun refused to go off. The Composer lowered the gun and took a shaky breath. The gun slipped from his grip, hit the ground, and misfired.

One shot. One bullet emerged.

But the Composer did not die. He remained standing, unharmed, undead, and lonely. He dropped to his knees and took a series of shaky breaths that had him quivering in his skin. All it would take was one bullet, one bullet that refused to fire at the Composer.

And there Kiryu Yoshiya remained, on the ground in the Dead God's Pad, shaking in his skin.

One bullet for the murder of his sweet, of his dear, dear partner. But no bullets would fire for the Composer.

One hit  
>One shot<br>One bullet  
>For the murder of my sweet<br>Too late  
>Too wrong<br>Too perfect  
>Coz our love wasn't meant to be<br>One hit  
>One shot<br>One bullet  
>For the murder of my sweet<br>Bang! Bang!


End file.
